


Railroad Tracks

by paperdaydreams



Series: Scars and All [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Graphic deaths, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Mild Smut, Minor Character Deaths, Prompt Fic, Serious Injuries, Stabbing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdaydreams/pseuds/paperdaydreams
Summary: Departing from Annesburg, Arthur and John are involved in a train robbery.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Scars and All [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877536
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Morston Week 2020 (Day 2: Sharing Clothes & Day 3: Patching Up Wounds).

The piercing noise of a train whistling off rouses Arthur from a heavy sleep, blearily peeking out from beneath the blanket at the dusty windowpane, the clear sky of dawn declaring morning has arrived. Beside him, nearly halfway off the bed with his face mashed into the corner of a pillow, is John, snoring peacefully and oblivious to the telltale bell announcing the train departing from the station.

Arthur is fairly sure that exact train is the one they were meant to catch to head into West Elizabeth, but between the dull ache in his back from crawling through caves and the comforting warmth of the bed, he isn’t too concerned about it really.

Carefully rolling onto his side, he props himself up on one elbow to hover over the younger outlaw, blowing on his ear. John’s face twists into a scowl and he buries deeper into the pillow with an unintelligible grumble.

Arthur lifts a hand, gliding a fingertip from his nape to the curve of his lower spine, smiling when John lifts his head.

He groggily asks, “Where’s this goin', Morgan?”

“I dunno… how far would’ya let me?”

A dark eyebrow twitches at that, and John's head drops back down, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s just you, so… it’s fine.”

Arthur is a little taken aback by that earnest statement, his clear invitation. His ears pink a little, mind wandering.

“Ain’t no rush or nothin’,” he intercedes.

“But if you're wantin' to…”

Arthur isn’t keen on hurrying anything, but he does press a lingering kiss to the top of the jutting spine, to which John hums softly.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, then adds, “But the next train ain’t till one.”

The younger outlaw groans, then rolls over to curl into Arthur’s side. One brown eye peers up, narrowed a little. “Shame you ain’t in a rush,” he teases.

Arthur chuckles.

X

Waiting on the platform to prevent from missing the one o'clock train, the humid summer air is tolerable only thanks to the cool breeze off Flat Iron Lake. A cluster of gentlemen and ladies are gathered in the shade of the building, and waiting by the edge of the platform are two rougher fellers dressed for travel, bandoliers and gun belts well oiled and heavily equipped.

Bounty hunters, Arthur assumes. Best to stay out of their way, considering both he and John have sizable bounties hanging over their heads.

“Sure it comes at one?” John inquires, looking down the tracks to the south, where the train should be arriving from its stop in Saint Denis.

“That’s what the board had written on it,” he responds, scratching his chin. The beard's starting to lengthen to a point it itches.

John makes a disagreeable noise, rolling his shoulders beneath the layer of his tattered grey coat, a sheen of perspiration beading on his face. With no horses between the two of them, no camp to return to after a week on the road, and no gang to rely on for reinforcements after the mess in June, they keep all of their belongings on them at one time. Their satchels and pockets can carry only so much, and juggling their clothes isn’t feasible when they need their hands free in case of dropping all and running.

After the incident in Valentine, the move to Dewberry Creek was planned with not a moment’s caution, everything packed in haste and loaded onto the wagons. A scout party went ahead – consisting of solely Arthur and John – who rode straight into an ambush. Their tracks led straight back to the poorly guarded wagons, open in plain sight on the roads, and in the panicked race to reach safety, far too many were gunned down.

Whatever they carried on them at the time, their revolvers and a rifle to spare, were all the firepower Arthur and John carried, and the ammunition between them lasted long enough to ward off the law while they tried escaping on foot – the tobiano shot to death in their flight, and John’s Old Boy vanished in the wake of gunfire.

For the last two months, they’ve relied on the clothes off their backs, the precious few bullets in their revolvers, and their reliable old knives. Scavenging what they could find from the homes of cottars, despite it being ground into them from a young age to refrain from robbing the poor, it fell to necessity. Arthur’s capable of bending his morals if it means maintaining the ability to defend himself and John should their lives be endangered.

As for John, Arthur recounts privately with a glance at the dark-haired man shifting from heel to heel impatiently, the life of an outlaw comes far too naturally, a gun drawn way too quick with his fluctuating temper.

Far too many times, Arthur judged the weight of taking or ruining lives in the name of the gang – mindlessly obeying Dutch’s orders and believing it was for their plight, in their pursuit of freedom and a better world. He shouldn’t have been so blind, as the hints arose years ago, when robbing from the rich to aid the poor twisted into holding up trains for their valuables, stealing from do-gooders to line their own pockets on the off chance those people would become corrupt under the weight of their wealth.

When killing to cover their tracks or ‘adjusting the board’ to their advantage began, Arthur noticed but didn’t question it; Hosea did, he never stopped fighting with Dutch, demanding if the money stained with blood was worth it, if the bodies left in their wake were deemed ‘causalities’ to a necessary cause.

Finding Dutch after the attack, amidst the carnage of half the gang, _refusing_ to search for and save anyone who may have been taken alive - Hosea's old arguments rose to memory faster than Arthur’s reason could hold back his disbelief, his _fury_.

To abandon their family, their closest of friends, men and women considered brothers and sisters in arms… Arthur couldn’t believe their leader would resort to such a decision.

But he did, gathering the foolish willing to follow – Micah Bell at the forefront, a position he’d won through all the right words, cunning in his vile seduction – and Arthur refused to stand with such a person any longer.

Then again, Dutch had always been controlled by a streak of self-preservation, encouraged by the stroking of his ego. How it took so long to see it, more so then fact Arthur bent over backwards dozens of times for the man… no more. He couldn’t anymore, not once the mask fell away, not when Dutch stopped caring for people Arthur loved.

John followed him without hesitation, and has continued to even now, his quick-to-anger shadow a pillar of support, a lean-to against the harshest of storms. Arthur couldn’t be more relieved for his constant presence, his loyalty, and what he assumed merely friendship instead truer and deeper a bond neither had anticipated until – naturally – they were where they stood now.

Arthur wouldn’t question it trade it for anything. There’s familiarity in John, trust and genuine love to be found there, acceptance and understanding no other person could attempt to replicate. John’s all he's got.

It wasn’t long after fleeing when Marston spoke again of Blackwater, of fearing they were abandoning him to die alone in the grip of the law, when he thought something momentous shifted in Dutch, transforming him into a depraved, obscene mirror of himself.

_…when he shot that girl… I ain’t sure it was the only choice he could’a made…_

Dutch murdered an innocent woman, something none of them had ever done out of choice, if at all. If it wasn’t a sign something was terribly _wrong_ , then abandoning his beloved gang sure as hell reaffirmed it.

Though they weren’t able to find any of their captured gang members, likely dead or killed within the two months they ran without pause, Arthur clutches fiercely to the hope one day they might be found again.

As for Dutch though, he doesn’t really know what’s right or wrong to feel. Part of him wants things to be as they were before, but if it were, their memories would be tainted by truths too dirty to clean. Part of him hates what’s become of them all, those murdered and those left behind to suffer.

Another part of him is hollow, the cracks run too deep, where forgiveness can’t quite reach.

The chug-chugging of heavy iron and clattering of an approaching train pulls him from deep thought, the tracks vibrating as the steam engine rolls nearer, and John huffs beside him. “‘Bout time.”

Boarding one of the cars closer to the back of the train, they occupy a seat where they retain a clear view of the half a dozen or so passengers ahead, scattering in random selection. Arthur takes the space nearest the window, squinting out at the sunlight on oily water, the dead aquatic life scattered in the rust-coloured pools along the pebbly shore. Industries like those in the mining town only poison the natural world; he would be afraid to see the entire world engulfed in the toxic clouds belching from factories, how each breath is choked with the stench of burnt metal and tar.

Before sitting, John sheds his coat, folding it in his lap to hide the low-slung gun belt. His hat tips forward on his brow when he rests his head against the back of the seat.

“Still an oven in ‘ere,” Arthur comments.

“Better than the sun beatin' down. Pretty sure I were meltin' out there,” he grumbles, not moving his hat off his face. The center of his black shirt and under the sleeves are noticeably darker, a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck.

Arthur contemplates removing his buckskin jacket but considers against it when, from the corner of his eye, notices a broad figure in muted tones board the train at its whistle. A woman with silver-streaked hair gathered in a low braid, a wide-brimmed hat shading her eyes, she glances quickly at the passengers before swinging into the front seat in one fluid motion. Another bounty hunter, he guesses, from her poise and the arsenal strapped across her back.

In the back of his mind, the unsettled guess they’re here for them won’t dislodge. He looks to John, about to say a word of caution, when he realizes the younger outlaw is already peering out from beneath the edge of his gambler’s hat warily.

So, no. He wasn’t wrong to presume otherwise of the woman and two other fellers.

Ever since the Valentine shootout with Cornwall's goons and the disastrous move from the Overlook straight into a trap, he nor John have had the opportunity to acquire different clothes. Everything they have is theirs, found, or pilfered. They’ve been careful too, avoiding leaving a trail, not staying in any one place for more than a couple days, keeping away from folks who might recognize them from wanted posters or description. John has the luck of more anonymity than Arthur, but by being with him in any given place doesn’t help matters.

Eyes are everywhere.

Arthur shuffles through their options: To depart from the train draws attention to them. They lack horses, preventing a quick getaway. Their ammunition is far too sparse to hold the advantage in a gunfight, and a foot chase with no cover is as dumb an idea one can think up.

Trains move fast from point A to point B, and aren’t easy to board or leave while moving at full speed; leaping off at a safe point and running without pursuers means gambling the chance the bounty hunters won’t follow or hop off at the same time, offering a brief head start, completely necessary without the means to fight.

Sure, they both have knives, but close combat is risky and someone almost always, even in a fair fight, will get stabbed.

Or, he builds a scenario, they arrive at their destination and mingle in a crowd, or find concealment. The bounty hunters either find or lose them. He juggles the pros and cons, all the while realizing – as the train weaves a bit – there’s one of the bounty hunters headed down the aisle to their car.

John is tense beside him, hand slipping under his coat for his revolver. Arthur pretends to stare out the window as the newcomer sits across from the woman; he wasn’t with the previous fellers waiting on the platform, the black jacket reinforced with padded panels and double bandoliers different from the dark clothes the other men wore.

Then, within a heartbeat, as the train reaches the bridge over the river at Brandywine Drop’s massive falls, Arthur realizes he was utterly _wrong_ about the bounty hunters.

The woman nods to the man, both lift bandanas over their noses, and they’re raising their weapons as they whirl into the center aisle.

“ _This is a robbery! Get yer goddamned hands up right now!”_

Screams break out from every car on the train and a distant gunshot chills Arthur’s blood, the brakes screeching to bring the train to a shuddering halt over fast-flowing water. The male robber whips off his hat, shouting at the first two ladies to toss in their purses; fretting, they comply without hesitation, and he moves into the next.

She lingers, staring at the ladies, then lifts her hand and shoots both in the head, their blood and brains spraying across the seat and painting the window in gore, slumping into one another.

“Christ,” John breathes.

Arthur swallows hard, watching the pair of robbers stalk down the aisle, collecting valuables and murdering every single person without a breath of hesitation or a moment's fault.

To run is to have a bullet in the back. To stay is to earn a bullet through the head. On the off chance they escape alive is to leave innocent lives behind to end, and to fight back could cost them their own.

They’ve done this before – these dangerous fools – used to killing and getting their way, fear a powerful motivator used against their rivals. Not a single train robbery Arthur was involved in included the death of a civilian; John can say differently, but not quite like this.

Two seats ahead of them, a gentleman’s head explodes with the force of a rotten watermelon hitting solid ground.

John flinches, and Arthur’s knife is in a bone-knuckled grip.

And then they’re next.

“Money, now.” The robbers are firm, hat sagging with gleaming gold and silver jewels, a watch on the top of the pile from the last poor feller. Gunshots with long spaces between their delivery ring out in the seconds Marston takes to look both robbers in the eye, reach beneath his coat…

It happens so fast.

The bullet blasts through the grey leather, a singed hole, and the male robber jerks back, colliding with the woman as deadweight. The stolen jewels hit the train floor with a thump, the pieces bouncing and rolling in all directions.

A perfectly round hole is through his forehead, and behind, her face is drenched in his blood.

She screams in rage, eyes bulging horrifically wide, and Arthur ducks as she shoots past her dead companion into the back of the seat where his chest was a second sooner. The hammer clicks on an emptied barrel with the third, she stringing expletives as she drops the gun and reaches for her shotgun instead.

John is in the aisle before she has a chance to use it, grasping both seats and swinging forward, putting the momentum into a heavy push kick, disrupting the woman's aim as she stumbles and falls backwards.

Arthur hops the seat, driving ahead of John to reach the woman first, seizing the shotgun as she aims at him, jerking the muzzle up at the final breath. The blast of shells is deafening, punching a hole in the train’s roof overhead. She kicks out, catching his ankle before he knows what she’s doing and sends him off-balanced, dropping him to the train floor. He lands heavily, the watch crushed under his shoulder.

The knife is out of his hand, spinning away under the seats into a puddle of blood.

“You son of a bitch!” she snarls, sitting up with the readied shotgun.

Grasping the watch, he wings it at her, catching her in the eye. He rolls beneath the seat, unholsters his revolver, and before she has a chance to recover and open a cavern in his gut, he squeezes the trigger, emptying the last two rounds he's got into her breast first.

She gurgles, clutching her chest, and collapses onto her back unceremoniously, shotgun clattering to her side. Blood pools beneath her, thick and hot.

Arthur flips over, looking behind him, half expecting to see John there. Instead, the train aisle is empty, and alarm charges through him.

“John!” he calls, heaving to his feet and taking the woman robber’s shotgun, rushing out the back of the train car.

Seeing no sign of him or anyone outside of it, he edges into the first freight car, shotgun raised. He can hear the tick-tock of a clock – his heartbeat.

_Breathe_ , he tells himself. _Find John_.

They were in the last train car, the three behind holding no passengers, a guard typically posted in the caboose. If another robber boarded as they were departing from Annesburg, tucking into a freight car and withdrawing from view, he’s sure to find them here.

He does, or rather, _they_ find him.

Passing a barrel he’s confident has no body behind it, he’s taken by surprise when someone does lurch out and push him sideways, colliding into the locked safes. Their hands seize the shotgun, trying to wrench it free for themselves.

“Y’weren’t supposed to be here,” the robber hisses. “ _Morgan_.”

“Plans change,” he grits in response to the stranger. “Any _fool_ … knows that.”

The robber bares an ugly row of teeth, stomping down on Arthur’s foot and aiming with a knee for the groin, but misses thankfully.

“Behind you!” John’s voice yells, and Arthur instinctively pulls to the side, chancing a glance back at a new face rushing him, the younger outlaw in pursuit, a nasty shiner blooming over the scarred half of his face. The newcomer slows to face John instead.

Arthur pivots and kicks, gaining a moment’s necessary room, and slams the shotgun’s butt into his opponent’s forehead; he hits them again for good measure and they tip over. No need to waste shells when a good old-fashioned strike immobilizes just as well.

There’s a pained yowl as John lunges forward, swinging his knife in a savage backwards arc. It slices through the leather of the robber's jacket, cutting into the flesh underneath, a splatter of red on the crates.

The male advances on Marston, sweating from the deep cut's ache, sawed-off raised. Unwise to leave his back open to Arthur; decking the robber across the back of his head, hat flying, John snatches his wrist and twists his arm away as the trigger pulls, blasting an inch from Marston’s knee. In the same fell swoop, he rams said knee into the bastard's groin.

It’s enough, sending him doubling over in agony, and Arthur brings the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his exposed neck. He drops, like a stone into the sea.

“Y'okay?” John asks, prodding lightly at the fresh bruise, a tiny bleeding cut beneath his eye.

“Yeah,” Arthur gazes at the mess of corpses, of dead innocents past the scraggly outlaw, the heat of battle dousing quick as exhaustion pours in. “Who was these folks?

“Idiots,” is his response. He turns as John bends, frowning at the robber. “What a damn mess.”

“One of ‘em recognized me,” Arthur adds. “Never seen the bastard before.”

“Y'sure?”

“I ain’t sure about nothin’ no more ‘cept someone’s gonna stumble across this train an’ see us with all the bodies.”

“Leave the valuables,” John instructs. “Take the guns and ammunition, we’re gonna need it.”

Arthur’s fine with those sorts of pickings. Taking off dead _people_ though, not so much. He tries to maintain some honor, though it isn’t easy being a gun-slinging outlaw wanted for theft and murder.

“Were there only the four?” Arthur inquires, emptying the robbers' pockets of spare ammunition and emptying revolver chambers of extra. He slings the shotgun over his shoulder, following John into the next car. It reeks of blood.

“Think so. There was two on the platform with us, the woman…”

“And one hiding back there,” Arthur adds. The first feller who went down is ripe with pickings, including half a pack of premium cigarettes stowed in a breast pocket. He takes them as well to give to John later.

A spare pistol is on the woman, unused in her secondary holster. It’s a Schofield, midnight blue steel engraved with a white art nouveau design, the mahogany grip carved with lines of four, a strike through each set. Arthur counts thirty-three.

Kills, or years? Outlaws often look older than they are, given the life they lead.

John’s already heading into the next car, a rifle on his shoulder, from god knows where. Arthur didn’t remember any of their attackers having one.

Arms seize him from behind in a chokehold, squeezing devastatingly tight, but not before he is able to shout out. Arthur rams his elbow back into their ribs – once, twice, thrice. They don’t let up, and he can’t find the gasp of air he needs, the stranglehold tightening further.

It’s blackening around the edges, his lungs agonized, crying for air.

“Let him go!” John shouts, bone-handled revolver pointed at the robber's forehead. He clicks back the hammer, brown eyes steely with an unveiled threat.

Arthur’s captor doesn’t let up, chuckling cruelly. “Drop it,” he barks, heavy on the Irish accent. “Now, or yer friend ‘ere chokes to death.”

John hesitates. Arthur squirms, prying at the Irishman’s hold. _Shoot him, John. Just shoot him dammit!_

He doesn’t. Instead, he tosses the revolver aside, raising his hands. “Okay, friend. We play it your way,” he says, anger not at all hidden by his amicable tone.

The Irishman releases Arthur, despite expectation.

His lungs expand, gulping in as much air as he can take, disoriented and staggering. He puts his back to John, still winded and heaving, revolver already drawn and firing a new bullet through the feller's heart. The disbelief written across the Irishman’s face could almost be comical as he sinks to their feet, one last feeble gasp marking his passing.

“Hey,” John says.

“Why didn’t y’take the chance to shoot him?” Arthur asks, voice rough from near being choked to death.

“Didn’t have a clear shot.” The younger outlaw shrugs. “You’re fine, ain’t ya?”

Arthur coughs. “I dunno, _sure_.”

“At least it worked, yeah?” Marston chuckles, stepping out onto the platform between cars. “I weren’t expectin'-"

Right before his eyes, a robber darts out from his concealed cover outside the car, shoving John backwards. Arthur’s hand is on the mahogany grip, lifting it halfway, when the glint of silver disappears as abruptly as it came-

Buried straight into John’s belly.

His mouth is open, a silent wail.

Blood dribbles down his legs, staining the denim, soaking his boots, dripping between the platform grate.

Someone screams.

The bullet erupts a crater in the attacker's skull, bits of brain and bone splattering the train car in a halo, hand holding the knife limp and letting go as they fall.

John looks down at the knife’s hilt protruding from his stomach. He sways, then his throat convulses with a cough, red on his lip.

_“JOHN!”_

Arthur doesn’t recall reaching him until he’s got Marston in his arms, lifting him, half-falling off the platform into shallow rapids.

John’s breath gurgles, blood in his mouth. His eyes are glossy, but wide with shock.

“Hold on! _Ohh god, please_. Please hold on!” Arthur’s begging, struggling under the unassisted weight and the currents dragging on his ankles. An arm is wrapped loosely around his back, but has no grip.

John tries to speak; only red comes up. He coughs then, face completely compacting into an agonized grimace. His breaths are feathery and light.

Arthur is in a blind panic, boots hitting shore, pebbles skittering in all directions. A herd of deer bolt, white tails bobbing as they soar in fright. 

The trees are denser across the river where he falls, partly onto Marston, catching himself and the younger outlaw before he crushes him. His hands frame his face, calling his name.

John’s heaving, crimson spilling down either side of his mouth. His eyes dart, finding Arthur a blur over him, their terror mutual and reflected.

The knife juts up, off-center, beneath the ribs. It’s buried deep. As desperate as he is to pull it free, something Hosea once said swims to the forefront of his memory.

_Don’t remove a knife. You’ll bleed out faster that way. I’ve seen it happen for too many fools._

“I don’t… I ain’t- what…” Arthur stammers, tripping over words. “I don’t know what to do.”

It’s so cold, his hands numb and trembling uncontrollably. The blood's deep, a rich red, John’s life pooling on his stomach and running to stain the earth. At a complete loss, Arthur presses his hands flat around the knife.

John cries out, sinking deeper into the bloodied ground.

“John… I’m so _sorry_ , I should’a seen him… my fault, my fault,” Arthur’s repeating random thoughts, apologies, all at the forefront of his mind.

_Don’t wanna lose you, don’t make me lose you… we been through too much…_

_…please, take me instead of him… can’t lose him… goddammit there’s blood everywhere… it won’t stop…_

_I did this, I did this…_

“Arrrrrrthuuuur,” John wheezes hoarsely, grasping for his arm, blood-slick fingers pawing weakly. He’s so pale, Arthur thinks in dread. The blood is so red.

“Hello?” a stranger calls out, and instinct flips a deadly switch, Arthur’s dominant hand whipping up the revolver with pinpoint accuracy. On the narrow path ahead is a man, a rifle their hands.

The stranger drops the rifle with a high noise, palms up high.

“Get back!” Arthur snarls.

John’s grip loosens on his wrist, hand falling to the churned-up leaf mold. Heart crashing in his ears, Arthur forgets the stranger, an enveloping horror blanking his mind.

“No, no-no, _no!_ John, _John!_ Stay awake, stay with me!” he mushes his hands into the wound again, blood oozing up between his fingers. “John!”

The stranger is suddenly beside Arthur and he arches over the wounded outlaw protectively, fear and fury driving sense aside.

“Get away from-"

He doesn’t anticipate the pair of hand tightening on his arms, the stranger locking eyes with him with a light shake for fair measure.

“He needs a doctor, Mister. Help me carry him to the house, and I’ll do what I can for your friend. Understand?”

He isn’t deaf, so the words are heard. He nods, allowing the man to retrieve the rifle to put across his back, then returns to lift the unconscious outlaw’s legs.

John doesn’t make a sound, his body lax.

Arthur barely notices anything other than that nerve-wracking fact.

The trek up the trail comes to a hill, then a quaint little home, smoke curling from the chimney. A lady in a green skirt is on the porch, and her hands fly to her mouth at the sight of the stranger and the outlaw coming to the door, which she is opening before even being told.

Across a hardwood floor and through into a room with a bed they carry John, depositing him there carefully, the stranger propping up an extra pillow behind his limp head. Arthur’s hand is at Marston’s neck, seeking a pulse.

Slow, but beating. His breaths are shallow and whistling. Has the bleeding slowed?

The lady is at Arthur’s shoulder with scissors and a handful of torn linens, a gentle touch startling him. Her eyes are tender, reflective orbs.

“Cal, fetch the doctor. We will do what we can here,” her graceful, clear voice is a buoy in the raging ocean.

“I will return soon. Eh, and Mister,” the man – _Cal_ – says. “It will be alright, you hear?”

Without another word, Cal has left and within minutes, the galloping hooves of a horse thunder round the house and down the path they’d come.

Meanwhile, the lady has drawn Arthur to sit on the bed next to John, placing his hands over the knife wound; the blood has significantly slowed. She is wielding the scissors deftly, trimming open Marston’s shirts and removing pieces until he is bare. His skin is smudged to his neck, the worst of it gathered beneath the soaked cloth at Arthur’s palms.

“Lift for me,” she asks gently. He does, she quickly removing the rest of the destroyed garment, wrapping one of the linens she brought around a hand into a folded roll, and places it at the base of the wound. She moves Arthur’s hand onto the thick layer, and instructs, “Press down, please.”

John groans in response, inhaling sharply through his nose. His eyelids roll and flicker. “Ar…thur…?”

“Easy, Johnny, _easy_.” He shifts up the bed a bit, not moving his hand from steadying the flow. “A doctor’s comin' real soon, okay?”

Marston’s already out before the final vowels are uttered. Arthur finds his pulse again, then shakily looks to the lady, meeting her worried gaze.

“Keep pressure there, Mister,” she advises, rising smoothly. Her fingertips are stained, under and around the nails dark. “The bleeding will stop.”

“I know,” Arthur mumbles. He does know; at thirty-one, he’s been shot and stabbed enough to educate others on how awful an experience it is. He’s been patched up quite a few times, too, in his lifetime.

But… it wasn’t _him_. It was _John_.

And that makes all the difference.


	2. Chapter 2

The offending knife lies on the edge of the table, sticky with drying crimson. Arthur leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest, glaring venomously at it. A small shaft of steel, pressed and scraped into the finest point, sharp enough to halve blades of grass – death in one single stroke.

It nearly killed John.

Arthur can barely stand to look at the thing, and yet he can’t avert his eyes – like a cougar, amidst the bushes and prepared to strike in the heartbeat its unassuming prey blinks.

The doctor had arrived with the stranger called Cal within two hours, their horses lathered in sweat. Cal meant to introduce the doctor to Arthur, waiting impatiently at the door with the lady, but the doctor brushed past with a clipped query as to where the patient was.

Into the room they disappeared, and the door remained closed for many minutes. Cal left just short of twenty, spoke a hushed word to the lady, and she took his place in the room while he went back outside to tend to the horses.

Arthur wasn’t welcome beyond the closed door. He’d been prepared to wrench it from his hinges when a cry pierced the draining silence, but then all lapsed into quiet and he couldn’t bear it another moment, joining Cal outside.

He learned this was ‘Willard’s Rest', and Cal had brought his wife to live away from Chicago in favour of embracing the frontier. He also learned Cal was a gentle man with horses, earning a smidgen of respect from the sandy-haired outlaw. They groomed and fed the tired beasts, and leaned on the fence staring at the trees and changing sky until his wife was at the porch, calling for them to come back inside.

Arthur hadn’t followed at first, lost in memories of before, of the morning at the start of this disaster. Of ever boarding that goddamned train, instead of wasting the remainder of the day in bed with-

“Mister?” the lady beckons gently, stirring him from the lonesome hallows of his head. She’s come from her room, where Cal retired for the night an hour earlier.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” he makes to tip his hat, but it’s been gone for many a day since it was blown off in a field by a rifle. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he drops them to his sides.

He is still smeared in blood, reeking of it, except his hands which were cleaned before tending the horses.

“You could sit, if you wanted. Today has not been kind,” she invites, drawing out a chair at the table. He approaches, then his chest tightens in panic.

“How is he?” he asks, wary and begging all at once. He fears to know, yet needs to.

The lady smiles knowingly, nods. “He will be alright. The doctor advises rest for a few weeks.”

Her words sweep through him, violently abrupt.

Arthur sits in the chair before his legs give out, the lady's kind hands guiding him there. Her proud, empathetic face is creased in worry.

“Cal and I heard the gunshots earlier. I was too frightened to see, but he ventured out earlier… but you know that,” she corrects hastily, then adds softly, “I’m glad I did not protest too adamantly.”

“Yeah, it’s real lucky…” Arthur trails off. He absentmindedly runs his palms on his thighs, though they are dry. He feels her watchful gaze, studying him silently.

“…John, is it?” she asks.

“He is. My name’s Arthur.”

“Like that outlaw wanted for murder.” He blinks up at her calm smile, her one hand raised. “No fear, Mister. My name is Charlotte Balfour.”

_Charlotte_. “Thank ya for your hospitality, Missus Balfour…”

“Charlotte is fine,” she interrupts. “If I may call you Arthur, of course."

He nods.

“Would you care for something to eat, or drink? Cal and I have plenty to share,” she offers graciously.

“I, uh… no, I…” he glances at the closed guestroom door. “M'fine, ma'am.”

“Charlotte,” she insists, stepping from the table to bring a small platter of sliced bread, cheese, and pieces of fruit. “Please, help yourself. The most help you can offer your friend is to eat properly and look after yourself.”

Arthur looks to the guestroom again, stares at the apple slices glistening and sweet, and plucks one from the tray to appease her. She hums in approval, then busies herself by the fireplace.

The apple is tart, a burst of flavor on his tongue. It’s too easy to help himself to another slice, then the rest are devoured. He cannot recall if he’s eaten today, the morning a foggy blur, nor if apples have always been so scrumptious and he’s not noticed until presently.

He’s nibbling on a second piece of doughy bread when a cup of steaming coffee is placed at his elbow, and he mumbles gratitude.

“I am headed to bed but if you have need of something, please, don’t be afraid to wake us,” Charlotte says, resting a kind hand on his shoulder. “Finish the food and make more coffee if you wish, it bothers me none.”

“Thank you, Charlotte,” he says, softly. She places her other hand there, providing a gentle squeeze, and neatly departs to the bedroom.

Lifting the coffee to his mouth, the heady aroma is soulful and wonderful, and he drains the cup in one swallow despite the heat of it. He pours another cup, bringing the entire pot to the table, and works his way to the bottom before clearing the platter. He feels better, if only slightly.

Depositing the dishes in a tidy stack by the sink, he occupies the chair once more, staring at the grooves in his palms and feeling how desperately he wants to have John’s hands enfolded in his.

X

Someone shaking his arm rouses him unkindly, and he jolts upright, hand flying to his holster.

The doctor takes a step back, nostrils flaring in annoyance. “He’s quite well, if you wish to see him,” he announces. “Do not wake him yet, or expect him to move freely for three days.”

“He’s alright?” Arthur asks groggily.

“Yes, though the knife wound was exceedingly deep, it missed all major organs and nicked no blood vessels. Whomever sought to kill him did a poor job of it,” the doctor comments sourly.

“All that blood though…”

“A vein, but I assure you it was nothing major,” the doctor assures hastily. “As I said, he mustn’t move around beyond reliving himself, and so forth. No heavy meals either, he won’t benefit from solid foods for a week, if you please. The boy needs rest, Mister… ah?”

“Callahan. Uh, Jeremiah Callahan,” he fibs, offering a hand to the doctor. It is accepted, shaken, and released quickly. The doctor squints at him disapprovingly.

“The patient is young, and his body is strong. He will heal fast, but time and rest is imperative, Mister Callahan. _Imperative_ ,” he stresses.

Charlotte joins them, her nightgown rumpled, sleepy eyes focusing on the doctor. “He is alright, then?” she inquires.

“Yes, madam. The boy is in sound health otherwise. I was informing Mister _Callahan_ here of the necessary procedures he must follow.” He nods as Charlotte hands him a purse of money, but before Arthur can object to her paying, she is herding the doctor to the porch with a flurry of questions.

Minutes later, she returns.

“Mister _Callahan?_ ”

“Comes with the job,” Arthur says apologetically. “Y’didn’t have to…”

Charlotte flaps her hand dismissively, noticing the dishes by the sink. “Oh, good. There’s more around the house if you’re still hungry.”

“Nah, I ain’t inclined to disadvantagin’ a lady or her husband,” Arthur declines. “You’ve done enough, an' I thank you for it. Truly.”

“The week ought to be interesting,” she grins. “I’ll be excited to hear of your adventures. It isn’t everyday Cal and I have the fortune of meeting infamous _gunslingers_ from the west.”

“North,” Arthur corrects, though his rough southern accent tends to throw people off. An amalgamation of hearing different accents and dialects both, he supposes. “Though recently, from wherever the road takes us, I guess. But I ain’t intendin' to intrude longer than you-"

She lifts a hand to quiet him. “Please, our home is you and John’s home for as long as you need. And,” she adds shyly. “The rifle could do with some proper use. Cal isn’t too fair a shot – he was a banker, and has an eye for finances, not shooting game. I’d like it if you stayed, at least until your friend is well enough again.”

A home, decent folk, the promise of meals and fine company. A pair of lovely acquaintances, a friend to teach hunting. Arthur believes, after the train incident and the cave before it, it can only go downhill from here. And yet he, a law-breaking, man-killing, house-robbing, dishonorable bastard, is being offered pure kindness from a generous soul, no strings attached, save to help her husband learn to shoot straight?

It would be cruel to not accept, and it would be wiser to decline and walk away, to keep such untainted souls as far as possible from the dangers the outlaws carry with their presence.

Affiliation with either of them is a crime. These people are _not_ criminals. They’re good, decent folk – like the ladies and gentlemen on the train, not knowing that ride would be their final ride down the railroad tracks, all for a bit of shiny metal and coin.

Arthur cannot allow their fates to befall Charlotte and Cal. He won’t serve as the reason for their unjust murders. It’s unfair.

“I’m sorry, ma'am,” he tells her, truly remorseful. But we ain’t the same kind of folk, an’ I don’t want you gettin' all mixed up in our business.”

Charlotte steels a bit, her mouth set in a hard line.

“Well, Mister Callahan – or _whoever_ you are. That young man in my guestroom is severely hurt, and you yourself are skinnier than the last rabbit Cal managed to catch for our supper two nights ago, so I’ll be damned if you leave us when clearly, you _need_ us! We can help you, and it is _not_ an offer I give lightly!” She steps forward, expression thoroughly resolute. “You may not be decent and civilized folk in the eyes of the law, but I ask you, who in this corrupt world is anymore?”

It’s endearing, and awestriking, how much of dear Susan Grimshaw he sees reflected in her stubborn spirit. Another woman to not cross and to never refuse. Her speech, profoundly stronger in truth than any repeated string of bullshit Dutch spouted nonstop, has him genuinely inspired.

“I apologize, Missus Balfour,” he says with great care. “John and I would be honored to stay awhile.”

Nodding acceptingly, Charlotte smooths down her gown. “Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep wherever you find comfortable.”

Gone to bed again, Arthur paces for a moment, unsure of where to settle. Outside would be down to his choice, preferring the night sky and all its stars, but the wet weather of yesterday prevailed, meaning the ground will be muddy. He isn’t inclined to track filth all through the tidy cottage, nor to rouse Charlotte’s apparent mothering streak with going outdoors, but the main room has no places to lie down unless he takes the floor, a chair, or the table top.

The creak of a door draws his attention to the pile placed outside Cal and Charlotte’s room, and Arthur retrieves it curiously.

Folded is a dusty blue union suit, beneath a pair of blue denim jeans and a collared shirt in a green plaid, the heavy cotton clean and soft. Arthur sourly contemplates the state of his favourite blue shirt and the loose black jeans. They’re well worn articles he’s kept for years, but too far gone after today.

Setting the gift of clothing on the table, he removes his gun belt and boots, shedding the stained shirt and jeans, and steps out front the little cottage to a barrel filled to the brim with rainwater off the side of the roof’s dark shadow.

Locating a bucket, he methodically scrubs his arms and chest with a cloth off the line – mentally promising to replace it as well as pay back _everything_ these people have selflessly offered – and dumps a few buckets of water over his head, rinsing the crusted blood from his skin.

The August night is warm, humidity broken, the refreshing tang of forests and rain emptying the stink of blood from his nose. There’s a summer wind blowing through the branches, and he is half-dry upon stepping back inside to redress in the union suit, years of living rough in expectation of the worst leading him to tug on the plaid shirt and jeans; though a little big, they’re comfortable, something he was not only minutes ago.

Feeling significantly more human, he wonders again where to sleep.

Arthur isn’t in a hurry to disturb John if he’s resting, as he was told not to wake him, but his entire being is rapidly swamped by the intense desire to lay his eyes on the younger outlaw and know – see for himself – that Marston is breathing, healing, _alright_.

The need is so disorienting and somehow clear in his focus, and he’s across the room before he can change his mind to cautiously twist the knob, entering the guestroom.

A candle is lit on the table, low and yellow. The room is small but sizable, occupied by only a necessary gathering of furniture, the bed taking up most floor space, save by the door or beneath the square window.

John is asleep, head angled to the faint moonlight barely visible through nightly clouds, his chest rising and falling steadily.

Arthur is transfixed, utterly and completely enraptured by the living and breathing man upon the bed.

There is not a smudge of blood, though the smell remains, and the medicinal tonics brought by the doctor. He inches nearer to the bed, holding his breath. There’s a chair available, and he sits slowly, taking enormous pains to avoid rousing the dark-haired outlaw.

John’s chest is bare, the skin clean and tinted by the candlelight, a hint of dressing peeking out beneath the blanket folded across his waist. A thick wedge of padding is beneath the wrapped gauze. Arthur doesn’t know, but he assumes the site has been stitched closed. It’s done for most open wounds.

There is a sheet of paper on the table, and he can see the word ‘patient’ in the swooping cursive, legible enough to read. He slides the paper over, holding it up to the light. It is a reiteration of the doctor’s medical instructions in clarifying detail, covering all but the structure of the human skeleton and its two-hundred-something bones, and Arthur’s eye is gliding over the looping letters when it occurs to him there is a second page of postscript:

_P.S._

_Mister Morgan, your inability to cloak your nature as an uncivilized ruffian is astonishing. Your kind have kept my business in an active state as of recent, but I am unaware if I am to congratulate or scold you for endangering innumerable human lives._

_A doctor like myself may use a scalpel to cut into flesh to repair a deeper wound, as much as it is possible to open a vein and allow a patient to die with that very same tool. From my understanding, your gun has caused more harm than good in the time of your existence, and I suggest you consider, sir, the man carrying said gun will understand it takes the hand to pull the trigger and steal a life, and not the weapon itself._

_We are not so different, Mister Morgan. Where I choose to save lives, you end them, while it is entirely possible our roles be reversed through choice._

_Your friend will recover, provided you care to read my instructions and rely on wiser judgement of your actions in the future._

Placing the note down, Arthur realizes he has himself an audience. Brown eyes rest on his face, clear and focused; the younger outlaw’s lips move faintly, mouthing a silent greeting.

Slipping off the chair to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, who is reaching for his hand before he sought it himself, he whispers, “Y’alright?”

“You’re here,” John responds, eyelids heavy with fatigue. “Aside from that, no. Not really. Everythin’… hurts real bad.”

“Anythin’ I can do?”

A weary shake of his head. “Stay.”

He'd never refuse.

Shifting to the top of the bed, Arthur settles comfortably beside John, careful to not jostle him too much. If it worsens the pain, he makes no sign of it, merely exhaling shallowly and leaning his head against the broad shoulder.

“Guess we ain’t goin' on the huntin' trip anytime soon, huh?” John laments after a moment or so. Arthur rumbles a low chuckle.

“There’s time enough for that later,” he assures good-naturedly. “Just… worry ‘bout gettin' better, okay?”

“Mmm, fine.”

Crossing his ankles, Arthur lifts an arm and drapes it across John’s shoulders, the dark-haired outlaw instinctually slouching his weight into him. There’s a muffled wince.

“Y'gonna be okay there, Marston?” he asks, concerned being on the bed isn’t a good choice.

“I sure ain’t walkin' no time soon.”

Their hands interweave together, holding tight.

“Ain’t no rush, darlin',” Arthur murmurs, a promise there. “Ain’t no rush.”

Only yesterday morning, those words were for a different purpose. It stings, thinking _again_ if they’d never boarded the train, or had they caught the _first_ one they missed…

Oh, the regrets foresight could render undone to never occur. Arthur will never be free of them, he thinks darkly, and neither will John. If there was one offering he could make, it would be freedom from the shackles making prisoners of them both.

He drifts off at some point or another, the tension of the day melting to a dreamless sleep, with Marston tucked securely at his side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, told from John's point of view. Where the actual prompt word 'patching up wounds' comes into play.

His stomach is on fire, a fearsome itch dragging him from the depths of sleep to a nasty reality.

John stirs, lifting his head only for it to sink back into the plump pillows upon realizing it’s too much. He’s been awake for barely ten seconds and he’s already thoroughly exhausted.

_Christ,_ his belly is crawling with fire ants or has been stung by a disagreeable hornet. He fingers the gauzy corner of the bandage; he’s tempted to rip it off and dig his nails in, abandoning better judgement, but refrains with a sure clarity of how dumb an idea it would be.

It’s been four days of bedrest, bitter soup broth, and dressing changes once in the morning and again in the evening. And he can’t tolerate the restraining coddling any further.

Arthur has evolved since into a mother hen, the charm of his incessant worrying divulging into irritating dictation whenever John so much as _breathes_ wrong. He isn’t allowed to attempt a single action on his own, masking his fretting with snappish retorts. John’s used to shrugging off the older outlaw’s vexations, having been ridiculed and chewed apart most of the last couple years since leaving and returning to the gang.

He is not used to Arthur's surprisingly accurate representation of one terrifying Miss Grimshaw. Sure, he was the enforcer of the gang and bossed folks around when shit wasn’t getting done, but he’s since achieved a newfound level of… bossiness.

Still, John obeys the fairer outlaw’s order to _stay put Marston or I swear I’ll break your kneecaps_ and gazes out the window instead, at the black squirrels chasing each other up and down an oak, or the feller who owns the property passing the window with feed or a hay bale; occasionally, he glimpses Arthur, in a variation of faded plaid shirts.

It’s domestic.

Oddly enough, he likes it quite a bit.

John was never the sort of fellow who intended to settle down with a family on a homestead; Abigail Roberts was a one-time roll in the hay he hardly recalls, as he was drunk out of his mind and didn’t even know he slept with her until come the following day and everyone’s lewd whistles.

Known for working her way around the camp, brought back as Uncle’s new pet one autumn evening, John hadn’t thought much of the girl. Pretty, in a simple sort of way. He supposed she thought something of him, or maybe she didn’t, but ultimately he doesn’t care to know.

He wouldn’t know the appeal of women much; though the rare face caught his eye, most were fellers, a bit brawny, square-jawed – not far off from the sandy-haired boy of seventeen with a clear blue gaze who snapped the rope at fifty paces and dragged his sorry behind into the saddle of a silver dapple pinto.

John thinks that was the precise second he fell for the man. It took years before he could admit it to himself, but a meeting like _that_ leaves a mighty impression on a boy of twelve, and just continued to grow with every passing season.

Noises from the cottage draw his eyes from the window to the door, closed save for a narrow sliver, where in passing the folks can peer in and ensure he’s not lying facedown on the hardwood.

The family is childless but young, Cal a pleasant banker-turned-frontiersman and his wife, Charlotte, an intelligent and willful lady of enormous generosity. Welcomed into their home and provided food and shelter, not to mention their own clothes and money to pay the doctor, Arthur had filled him in on all which transpired the first evening.

John remembers waking and being relieved to find Arthur at his bedside instead of the doctor sewing his stomach closed, or the lady helping in intervals. He recalls only a few brief words then sinking under the haze, aided by morphine in his blood, Arthur at his side and unmoved come the next day.

The rest is a bullet-time blur, moments slammed together in intense detail, sounds and voices a single stream in his ears, Arthur’s face whiter than a sheet and daubed with bloody splatters-

He mentally shakes himself, edging away from the painstakingly clear details his brain decided to preserve rather than offer the mercy of forgetting. The wolf attack in May is faded some, until the night is shrieking with their howling and his scars throb in memory. Will the events of the robbery vanish as well, only to be refreshed by the whistle of an oncoming train?

The tap at the door and Missus Balfour’s pleasant face peers into the guestroom, a plate supporting a large bowl in hand. “Mister Marston, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” he responds. She enters the room, setting the food on the table, and presses the back of her hand to his forehead.

“No fever. Is the wound itching again?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, then clears his throat, not wanting to hold a conversation in monosyllables. “It’s ‘John', by the way.”

“Hmm, I’ll send Arthur to change the dressing once he’s done with Admiral.”

“That the horse?”

“Cal's horse, yes. Bought him before we even had a place to keep him!” She laughs. “Cal doesn’t ride often though, so the poor beast stands in the paddock from sunup to sundown. I always thought of taking him out a few times but, the territory isn’t exactly agreeable for a woman to venture around unarmed.”

“Why even live in Murfree lands?” John inquires as she moves around the room, looking out the window at the yard.

“Cal wanted to, and my god, it’s beautiful country,” she sighs romantically. “We’ve spent many nights down beside the waterfall. There’s an albino moose who lives across the river, and it’s the most majestic creature I’ve ever seen.” She smiles at Marston. “I wouldn’t go back to the city knowing what I’m leaving here.”

Distracted by something outside the window, Charlotte taps on the glass, then waves to someone, indicating for them to come in.

“There he is now. I’ll send him in,” she announces. “Cal is hoping to hunt us a deer for dinner. Arthur has been showing him how to use the rifle properly, but I insisted to accompany him – I wouldn’t last long without my silly husband.”

“Be careful out there, ma'am,” John advises, Charlotte thanking him then excusing herself, her voice outside the door in greeting.

Arthur comes into the room.

“How you feelin' today?” he asks, gesturing at him. “Y'got more colour in your face, there.”

“When I’m doin' better, _you_ tell me, cause I sure don’t feel any different from the day before,” John gripes.

“Sure,” he nods, smirking a bit, and approaches the bed.

The process of replacing the dressings is a messy and particular affair, beginning with propping John upright long enough to unwind the gauze. Panting air through his nostrils, Arthur has figured out how to unweave the fluid-stained cotton as to not prolong the rapidly increasing agony sprouting from the wound and radiating outwards; the first day had been a writhing, near-sobbing mess, both Arthur and Cal having to grip him steady while Charlotte, too impatient, used her scissors to slit the bandage up the back and peel the entire thing away, nearly scoring his skin while at it.

Gauze removed, a clean bucket of rags soaking in boiled water sits on the table, the ointment and clean padding laid out for easy reach. Arthur takes his time, loosening the edges of the pad over John’s upper belly and peeling it free, as to not disrupt the stitches. The padding is always a mess, stained yellow from the discharge – luckily not greenish pus indicating infection. To their relief today, the discharge is thinned, and the blot of drying blood in the center is smaller. A sure sign of healing.

Wiping the site clean then dry, John is able to apply a small glob of ointment around the edges of the stitches while Arthur disposes of the old wrappings and prepares the clean ones. The pad goes down first, the bandage taking longer to wrap than remove. He’s got his hand fisted in the sandy-haired outlaw’s shirt, and then it’s done.

When Arthur’s got his back turned, John drags his fingers clumsily through the thick locks curling over the plaid collar, tracing down the warm neck with purpose. Arthur glances back, concerned.

“Thank you,” John tells him, earnest and somber. He doesn’t need to say anything more, cause Arthur is nodding wordlessly. He scoots up the bed, leaning over John, a hand gentle on his cheek.

A tender kiss to his forehead.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he confesses, pulling back, expression pinched.

“You ain’t never gettin' rid of me, Mor-"

“John.” Arthur’s serious, in the iron-firm way he rarely adopts.

Humor dies, and the intention to agree falls short of being spoken aloud. He doesn’t know what to say, his mouth wobbling nervously. There had been a moment, when the edges grew fuzzy and the older outlaw’s panicked cries escalated, he feared there would be no waking up.

He tries again, but nothing comes.

Arthur places a hand on John’s jaw to tilt his head up, pressing a kiss to his lips. John strains, seeking more, but the hold on his chest keeps him where he is, and to not go and hurt himself.

“Easy, don’t rip them stitches,” he warns, indulging him once more, deepening the kiss to make it count for something. John decides he’s greedy, letting his mouth open a little, a stifled moan in the back of his throat sneaking through.

He whines in protest when Arthur withdraws. “Nothin' else till y’can handle it,” he says, bottom lip flushed pink. John could bite that lip.

Oh, as _infuriating_ as it is, Marston can play that game.

“You’re a tease,” John heaves upright, fighting past the paralyzing shockwave in his middle, getting a hand behind the sandy-haired outlaw’s neck and yanking him down, capturing his mouth in a desperate kiss.

They shouldn’t, but are none the wiser; grappling to drag Arthur closer, a knee rests between his thighs, pressing inward.

Blindly, John’s hands find the hem of his shirt and burrow beneath, delighting at the hot, firm skin. His fingers trace up the lines between his ribs, breaking the kiss to work his way down to his neck, sucking a wet bite there.

_“John…”_ Arthur groans shakily, firmly elevated to keep from placing his weight on the wound. “You can't… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Don’t care,” Marston spares a breath to say, capturing another wanton kiss, one Arthur returns just as hungrily.

John finds the laces of Arthur’s pants, undoing them with deft fingers, and awkwardly shoves down the denim to slip a hand down the front. Nibbling on the slick lower lip, his palm furls lightly around hardened satin skin-

Arthur _balks_ , head snapping back from John’s, quickly grabbing his wrist in the same second.

Despite the flush of his cheeks and the engorged pupils blown to moons, his tone is sharp when he urges, “ _No._ You… y’gotta stop.”

As though struck, the younger outlaw releases him and pulls his hands away, the unchecked current of lust dousing, red-hot iron plunged into ice water.

His face must say it all because Arthur reaches for him, but he ducks away hurriedly, ashamed he tried to force matters, to go too far. There’s a heavy sigh.

“I'm not angry, Johnny.”

“M'sorry,” he whispers. “I weren’t thinkin'.”

“You wasn’t,” Arthur agrees. “And I weren’t either. But when this is all healed an’ you’re okay…” he trails off, taken aback when the burn of tears John’s fighting off well up regardless.

John swallows tightly.

“Look at me,” Arthur catches his chin, forcing their eyes to meet, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes as his head is turned. “I ain’t the one who was knifed. I weren’t bleedin’ to death in my own arms, _you was_. Y'think I haven’t thought it over in my head again and _again_ by now? ‘Bout how I should’a kept you from gettin' stabbed?”

“Arthur-"

“I thought you was gonna die on me, John. I thought I was gonna lose you, right there outside!” his arm flings wide in the general direction of the river. “You don’t care, but _I_ sure as hell do!”

John is speechless, guilt swirling up faster than the blood he lost.

Arthur blames _himself?_

For _days_ , that’s what he has believed?

“It weren’t _your_ fault!” John exclaims, trying – and gasping sharply when he fails – to come up to eye level. “Arthur…”

The older outlaw huffs a meek laugh, stretching forward to meet him, and presses his forehead to John’s.

“I want to,” he says, oh so quietly, as though afraid. “I would give myself to you however you’re wantin' me, but… you’re _hurt_ , darlin'. And I can’t bear the idea of doin' worse, of knowin’ _I_ was the one to...”

“I know you wouldn’t try to hurt me,” John murmurs.

John stills as a hand slides over his lower belly, roughened callouses and hot palm settling there. Tender, protective, possessive – in a way John didn’t know the fair outlaw felt for him.

“You matter,” Arthur admits, honest but shy, blue eyes deep and steady. “More than some roll in the sheets. I… am I selfish, wantin' this between us to last?”

“No,” John answers sincerely, his heart a bird taking flight. “You ain’t the only one wantin' that.”

It’s quite a lot like gazing at the sunset, its fiery brilliance intense and awestriking, waiting in the final rays of golden hour, when Arthur Morgan smiles. It’s something akin to that raw, uninhibited majesty, and John wishes he could capture the moment of his radiating joy to cherish forever.

No, John corrects himself. He doesn’t _just_ want this to last.

He doesn’t want it to ever _end._

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: As per personal preference, John and Arthur are a bit closer in age. Arthur is 31, having been born in 1868. John's birthday is the same.


End file.
